


Warped

by fanastikal



Category: Kaitlin Witcher, Video Blogging RPF, Vincent Cyr - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanastikal/pseuds/fanastikal
Summary: It's the 2014 Warped Tour, featuring some well-known YouTubers. But for one young man, things are a lot more warped than he bargained for.
Relationships: Vincent Cyr & Kaitlin Witcher, Vincent Cyr & Original Male Characters, Vincent Cyr/Original Male Character





	Warped

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers galore. I've literally warped a whole slew of people to make up a story that I would never wish on anyone. But that's the beauty of fanfiction.

Well, he'd finally done one of the things he'd said he'd never do: Drink until he blacked out. He thought he ate enough at the evening barbecue, but spending most of the day in the sun had probably dehydrated him. Cyr'd never been so tan in his life, being on this tour. He was always out a lot, but it was never to soak up the sun, unintentionally or not. Long hot, sunny summer days of meeting people and watching bands were definitely having an effect, and it wasn't always so pleasant. The grass under his body should've been annoying, but it felt cool and damp, and he was so sleepy. He liked sleeping on a carpet, and this was just a carpet of green, after all, so it would work, as long as he woke up in time for the bus to leave; right? They wouldn't dare leave him behind; would they?

“Yeah, pretty boy, you just lay there,” and everything suddenly got really ugly. “All those pretty girls throwin' themselves at you, and you just give 'em hugs and send them on their way.” Cyr hadn’t wanted to move before because he was so comfortable, but now that things were twisting horribly, he was realizing that he actually _couldn't move_. Jesus fuck, what was wrong with him? And who was this guy, pressed up against his backside, hands working at his belt? “I been watching you all summer, and you've been all lonely and frustrated, but I know exactly what you need, whether you realize it or not.”

Cyr managed, just out of sheer terror and determination, to basically jerk his uncooperative form and make a noise of protest, but it just ended up amusing the man: “Yeah, I gave you twice as much, so you're not going to be doing that much fighting. I know how feisty you can be, but we don't have time for that, now.” No.

Cyr could be flighty as heck, but he was also remarkably responsible for a 24-year-old. Only he would walk through the streets of fucking Camden New Jersey in the dark (god only knows what he saw _there_ ), and only he would Tweet strangers (fans or not, he still didn't know them like they knew him), and ask for a ride to go get a goddamn pizza. But he'd never miss last call for the bus. He was never that selfish, or rude. So, when Kaitlin, Damon (and then in desperation in case they'd accidentally pissed him off), Edwin, and finally Stefan couldn't reach him on his phone, they knew something was horribly wrong. They finally let venue security, and the police, take over because nobody could afford for another YouTuber to go missing, or on a wild goose chase, because they had another town to be in tomorrow. Before the bus closed, the authorities had a trace on his phone, and the best-case scenario would have them deliver the wayward young man to the bus, and don'tyou **ever** dothatagain. The worst-case scenario was one no one wanted to think about. The next to worst was that they'd find the phone, and not the guy, another no one wanted to consider.

“Mr. Cyr? Vincent Cyr?” “Vincent Cyr has been found alive.” “Send an ambulance, STAT.” “He's breathing, but unresponsive.” “Possible drug overdose.” “Possible sexual assault.” “Head wound.” A little too feisty: “ _I should've known you'd make me do this, you ungrateful little shit.”_

“Cyr?” “Don't be afraid, Cyr; I'm not going to hurt you. My name is John, and I'm an EMT. Can you open your eyes for me?” “Your left is blackened, so it's a bit dodgy.” “Can you move at all?” “Don't try so hard!” “Can you speak?” “I know it's scary, but it will wear off; don't make it worse by exhausting yourself.” “You're safe, now.” “I'm going to ask you only yes or no questions: Can you blink once for yes and twice for no?” Blink. “Very good.” “Are you right-handed?” Two blinks. “Left-handed, then?” Two blinks. “Ahh . . . smartass, then.” Blink. “You're almost smiling, already; very good.” “But I repeat: Left-handed, then.” Blink. “Me and my less talkative partner Mary here are going to start an IV with some nourishment and antibiotics, and we're going to put you on some oxygen . . . Can you blow your nose for me, maybe?” John wondered as he held a tissue over. “I think a heart monitor's in order, as well,” he concluded when the patient couldn't comply. “Did you drink tonight?” Blink. “Are you numb, as well?” Two blinks. “You're feeling pain, then?” Blink. “Do you know who did this to you?” Two blinks. “Are you nauseous?” Two blinks. “Have you realized that at least one of your drinks was spiked?” Blink. “And no one's coming to mind?” Two blinks. “On a scale of one to ten.” Five blinks. “We'll see what we can do about that.” “Do you consent to a rape kit?” Blink. _What the hell . . ._

The grassy field was at the edges of the enormous property, and though kept reasonably trimmed, was largely ignored, although it was now inundated with two police cars, two amphitheater security cars, and an ambulance. Date raped. Cyr'd been fucking overdosed with a date rape drug. _There's a new one for the vlog. Or not._

“We're going to move you now, very carefully.” He could've looked down, but he didn't want to. “We're strapping you on your right side in case you vomit.” There were blankets both under and over the ties, and he realized he was shivering. “Trauma can make your temperature go haywire.” Another car pulled up as John and Mary were adjusting everything, and Cyr dully realized that it was Kevin, as he and his own security head began to confer with the police.

“Does he know who did this to him?” “Someone at the barbecue?” “Someone who works for me?” “I want him guarded for the rest of the tour, at least until the fucker's caught.” _Fucker, ha! How appropriate._ Cyr squinted his eyes shut at the thought, then suddenly remembered something: His glasses. Where the fuck were his glasses? “What's the diagnosis, besides the obvious?” Kevin was asking John, now. _Besides my being raped, you mean,_ and he shuddered involuntarily.

“Patient is currently unable to move or speak due to cumulative effects of the drugs his drinks were spiked with, and will need to be watched very closely. He's currently on oxygen to try and speed up the process, and a heart monitor as a precaution, as he's unable to inform us of any distress. He'll need extensive bloodwork to check for diseases; a rape kit will be performed to aid in the investigation. The drugs may have relaxed him enough that he hasn't been badly torn up, but he will at least need a CT Scan to make sure he hasn't suffered a brain injury. He's on an IV of nourishment and antibiotics, and I've injected a mild painkiller into the line to alleviate any discomfort.”

“Cyr, you're off the tour until further notice,” Kevin said quietly, sadly, leaning over the stretcher in the ambulance, fingering the blanket at the young man's shoulder. He'd been zoning out, but that miserable statement snapped his eyes wide open, and he found himself glaring at the owner of the tour. “You could be in the hospital for days, and we can't promise people that you'll be there--”

“Nnnno!” Hearing that pitiful sound come out of such an exuberant guy was only slightly less shocking then what happened next:

“Hey!” John snapped out, now. “I don't care if you do own the tour, if you upset him again, I'll throw your ass out the back doors of this ambulance!”

“Point taken.”

“This is not the time, nor the place.”

“Sorry.” It was John who was glaring meaningfully, now, so Kevin turned back to Cyr, hand squeezing his shoulder comfortingly. “I'm so sorry, Cyr.”

The lights were mesmerizing to him all of the sudden, and he found himself staring up at them once he was unbundled and rolled onto his back. Maybe Kevin had fast-tracked him, but suddenly there was a myriad of people checking his eyes, his ears, his heart. They snared his arm and took some blood. They rubbed cream around his blackened left eye and taped a small icebag over it, since he obviously couldn't hold it, and covered him with another blanket when it made him shiver more. And don't forget the wristband. “Can you squeeze my hand?” a doctor was asking, and he double-blinked involuntarily because he forgot that John wasn't there. The doctor frowned as a finger barely twitched, then turned away. _Well, that wasn't very reassuring._

“All the bills come to me,” Kevin announced, carefully filling out any paperwork, calling his assistant for anything he didn't know about Cyr, letting the young man zone out for the brief periods that they were actually alone. They did the brain scan first, wheeling the portable bed into a room where Kevin couldn't follow, undoing and redoing the icebag. They were loath to do the rape kit while he still couldn't move, but that's what it came down to, and Cyr just continued to stare at the ceiling while they carefully stripped off all his clothes for evidence. He didn't care who they were, as long as they were professional, and one watched his eyes for obvious distress while the other did the collections. Afterwards, they gave him a very thorough and soothing sponge bath, and redressed him in a standard hospital gown. And John had been right: Though he would be very sore and bruised for the next few days, at least he hadn't been ripped open to any degree.

“So he had a small penis,” Cyr whispered out of nowhere after the report was read by a Dr. Watson to both him and Kevin, and then all three of them were completely gob-smacked, as the elder men eyeballed the younger in disbelief. The laughter started a moment later.

“I was drinking, and then I was lying in the grass, and I was very happy except for the fact that I knew I had blacked out, and I just thought I had drunk way too much. And then I heard that voice, and realized that I was in trouble, but then I just couldn't move. He was just all over me. He laughed when I tried to scream, but he got so pissed when I actually started to bite him, and he hit me so hard that I blacked out again.”

“You actually managed to bite him?”

“I couldn't have left much of a mark, if you're thinking that could help identify him.”

“Between that, and his voice, it's a good start,” Drew commented. “And besides, I'm basically not leaving your side at least until he's caught, or the tour's over.”

“I don't know how I'm gonna feel about that,” Cyr sighed, leaning his back hard against his upraised bed. His voice was hoarse and whispery, but it was back, and he was starting to get some movement going as well, but it was slow, and left him feeling like a constant state of pins and needles. “If it ain't one prick, it's another,” he managed to joke about it. And he was bone tired, but was having trouble sleeping between the tingling, and being leery of where he might wake up. He'd nod off, then almost immediately jerk back awake, more wild-eyed than ever. Obviously already extremely attached to his phone, he was instantly even more enamored of it when he realized it had probably saved his life. At the very least, it would have taken the authorities much longer to find him. He shuddered to think how long he would've laid there, completely helpless. Drew had cleaned it up and laid it beside him on the bed, since he was still unable to pick it up, and he poked at it with an odd mix of pride and frustration.

“You'll feel safer, especially if it turns out he's been stalking you all summer.”

“I suppose.” Kevin's head of security was eyeing him meaningfully, and it irked him: “Look, Drew: I'm not helpless.” They both looked down at his inert form, and smirked. “Usually,” he clarified, still managing to be amused. “He knew that, and that's why he drugged me, and I _still_ managed to give him a hard time.” Cyr winced at his own choice of words, but continued, “I don't think he'd dare face me in person without an advantage. I've just gotta keep my guard up.”

“It's really not up for debate, Cyr,” Drew countered. “It's Kevin's orders, or you're off the tour.”

“Touché',” he frowned, nodding slightly in resignation.

“I'm getting better every minute,” Cyr threw at Kevin, up from his latest micro-nap, as the man had returned from wherever he'd gone, and was quietly conferring with Dr. Watson and Drew. “I want to be there tomorrow.”

“It's 3 a.m., Cyr.”

“Then later, nitpicker,” he snarked roughly.

“It's not just movement, Cyr,” Dr. Watson said gently. “You have other injuries, and the weakness and tiredness will linger much longer than the paralysis.”

“Put me in a goddamn wheelchair, then,” he persisted hotly, which earned wide-eyed looks all around. “Please,” he amended. “You're punishing me for what someone else did.”

“It's not like that--”

“Fuck you,” he spat furiously. “Don't tell me how to feel, and don't fucking coddle me.” His eyes were streaming even as he said it. “If I don't go, even the little teeth marks I might've made'll fade.” A long, thoughtful pause, “What if he decides to do this to someone else?”

“The focus appears to have been solely on you--”

“But he got me, so now what?” he challenged.

“Stop it, Cyr--”

“I'm trying to!”

“Your health is the most important thing--”

“My physical health isn't that bad, but what about my mental health?”

“Cyr!” Kevin snarled in exasperation.

“Kevin!” he shouted back, just not giving a fuck, anymore.

“Can I have a word, outside of the young man's earshot?” Dr. Watson requested, obviously trying to be the voice of reason, and wincing at the sheer volume at this early hour, even though the door was closed. Cyr sighed dramatically as the three started to exit his room, and Kevin fluttered his eyes:

“Now, don't dare move an inch; hear?” Cyr couldn't help it; he burst out laughing.

“If you can finish this sandwich, and keep it down, you can be discharged, but you will be in a wheelchair until further notice.”

They'd taken so long that he'd nodded out again, but his eyes popped open as soon as the plate landed on the swing-out table that was now, literally, over his stomach. The idea was interesting enough, but Cyr found himself positively stunned by the delivery man:

“Hi, John!”

“Hello, Cyr,” he smiled back. “I hear you're being a smartass again.” The younger man blinked in response, and they both chuckled.

“Special assignment?”

“You could say that,” John said lightly, and then sobered: “They're very worried about you.”

“Well, it's been a rough night, but I'm more worried about what that bastard could do next.” He shifted carefully as the EMT nodded, eyeing the tuna salad on wheat sandwich. “So, what's the dealio?”

“Nobody can feed you, so just eat it however you can. If you don't reject it within a half-hour, you're outta here.”

“So, projectile vomiting is out of the question?” he managed to grin, his trembling arms resting on the table already, slender fingers poking at the bread.

“Actually, it's half-expected.”

“Of course,” he knew, pulling at the crust. “I really wish I could film this: 'Cyr eats sandwich with absolutely no strength or coordination after being overdosed with a date rape drug.'”

“You'd film it on your phone?” John wondered, eyeing the gadget, and Cyr looked up hopefully. “I'll do it if you show me how; I _am_ over 30, after all.”

“Ahhh . . . I'd forgotten what it's like to eat like a two-year old.”

“You even had the high-chair tray thing in front of you,” John commented, still filming some time later.

“All I needed was the bib.” And they both looked at the sparse but scattered remains, and Cyr smiled: “I _definitely_ needed the bib.”

“At least none hit the floor,” but then they noticed, that some definitely hit the bed. And then they laughed.

“I didn't help him at all,” John insisted to a skeptical Dr. Watson, Drew and especially Kevin not minutes later. “In fact, I--”

“In fact, he was too busy filming me on my phone,” Cyr cut in with a wicked smile, poking his ever-useful device. “Now, can I get the fuck out of here?”

“You could still throw up--”

“I'm sure my discharging paperwork'll take a fuck of a lot longer than a half hour, so can we just get on with it, _please_?”

“Sorry, Cyr; you can't leave without any clothes-- Jesus, I'm _joking_!” Kevin retracted instantly as the patient's face lost all color and John got that murderous look he'd had in the ambulance. “With you around, John, I don't think I need Drew assigned to Cyr,” he tried to placate.

“If he tosses that sandwich because of that asinine statement, you'll need Drew to protect you from me; Is that _clear?_ ” the EMT practically roared in response.

“It's fine, John. We got a change of clothes for him from the bus just in case; I'll go get them.”

“How long do I have you, John?” Cyr whispered, laying back again, still too pale despite all the sun he'd had, closing his eyes. Drew'd gone for the clothes, Dr. Watson was doing the paperwork, and Kevin was basically just hiding.

“Just until you're strong enough not to need the wheelchair . . . a couple days, at most.”

“I've chartered a small plane to take the four of us to where the bus is,” Kevin explained as John wheeled Cyr through the hospital on their way out. “It'll meet us at the local airport.” And the young man went pale again. “I'll cancel it right now if you decide not to attend today's event,” he enticed.

“I get it,” Cyr whispered, although it looked as if it was the last thing he wanted to get. “The bus is hundreds of miles ahead by now.”

“That's right, and we have very limited time to catch it before the meet-up.” A strategic pause, “Your call, Cyr.”

“We're going,” he sighed, his fear of flying surpassed by his need to be there, and his sheer exhaustion. He was no longer on the oxygen, or the IVs, and his right hand and left elbow were bruised, but were covered by his long-sleeved, grey-striped henley shirt. He snuggled further into the wheelchair, letting his tiredness overtake him. John was a very comforting presence, having been an army doctor many moons ago, and Cyr knew that meant nothing bad would happen to him while he was around.

“I'm not gay,” Cyr mumbled in the small limo that Drew was driving, but John smiled as the wiry young man ended up draped up against him, still quite boneless from his ordeal, Kevin watching from the opposite seat.

“I don't care if you are or not, really,” he assured him. “But you're better off just lying with your head on my leg.” He helped him now, grasping arms and guiding gently. “You need to stop fighting the effects.”

“I don't like not being in control of my body.” A pause, “And, if I wasn't fighting the effects, I wouldn't be here now, on my way to the gig.”

“Mission accomplished, then?”

“Of course.”

“So, you're allowed to relax until it's time for the meet-up, so let me do _my_ job, Cyr.”

“I don't mean to be difficult, John,” he squinted up.

“Then shut up and get some sleep.”

There were straps, and arms, and thrashing: “Easy, Cyr.” John's voice snapped him to full alertness, and he stared up at the four men securing him to the reclined airplane seat. “I'm sorry, Cyr,” the EMT apologized as he finally started to catch his breath. “That was a terrible idea.”

“Well, you're right about not being helpless,” Drew winced, and the young man realized his panicked, flailing limbs had definitely hit their targets, and he flushed in embarrassment:

“Sorry.”

“We were trying really hard not to wake you since you finally nodded off for more than ten minutes.”

“Yeah,” he found himself agreeing. “Don't do that again.” A long, uneasy pause, “Just wake me next time I've gotta move.” His eyes darted around the tiny cabin as his slightly wounded companions took their own seats, and he realized his energetic outburst had exhausted him all over again, to the point where he wasn't even scared, anymore. John leaned over from his own seat and patted his hand reassuringly.

“Wore yourself out quick, eh?” he smiled.

“Don't look so smug about it,” he managed to yawn back, turning his head, and going out again.

Cyr started awake as the plane was landing, and dawn was just cracking when John carried him out of it and into the tour bus, where a bunch of his anxious companions were waiting.

“They all have bunks, but for now you'll spread out in the back area,” Kevin said as he led the way, Cyr leaning sleepily against John, eerily quiet for a change, Drew following with the EMT's medical bag. Everyone was trailing, just to convince themselves that Cyr was really there, and reasonably intact, but they kept a respectful distance. The bus was already moving, less than an hour from its destination, but still far behind the rest of the caravan.

“Is the pain back, Cyr?” John asked once they were reasonably situated, the young man nodding in response, lethargic, pale, and fevered. Kevin had brought water and fruit to the back before moving up front with Drew to brief everyone, and John picked up a banana, Cyr nearly grinning as he held it up. “I don't want you taking this pill on an empty stomach.”

“'Kay,” he whispered shakily, using both hands to feebly grasp it once it was peeled. Less than five minutes later, Cyr was out cold again, covered with a blanket from his bunk.

“He should be in the hospital, but he insisted on being here today, partially to not let anybody down that might want to meet him, but also in hopes that he might be able to assist us in catching his rapist. Cyr's very hazy on the visual aspect of the man, but he could probably identify him by voice, and he does remember somehow biting the suspect, apparently hard enough that the man felt compelled to punch him in the eye, which also means that he's most likely right-handed. A rape kit was performed in the hospital, so that positive identification can be established, so this won't turn into a witch hunt. Cyr will be in a wheelchair, accompanied by John the EMT, and also Drew, because we certainly don't want whoever this is to get ahold of him again. I want everybody to be on high alert, especially in Cyr's vicinity, and especially for those of you that know him best. He's not at full capacity, and if you notice any reaction of his that sets off alarm bells, let Drew and John know. We're better safe than sorry. At this time, we're not informing the public, as Cyr's not been vocal enough to express how he wants this aspect dealt with. He's not well, and we're being cautious, is all anyone needs to know. Switch the questions to his favor, please: We're extremely impressed that he's still out there meeting people. Keep an eye out for his mental state because the full reality of what's happened to him may not have hit him yet. He's been through a very traumatic experience, and we're going to help him through this any way we can. We don't believe the suspect will target anyone else, but there's no way to know for sure. It truly sickens me that this person is someone I've let into my family, and I will do everything in my power to see that he never hurts anyone again.”

“What time is it?” Cyr asked sleepily as John scooped him up into his arms again. “Is it time for the meet-up already?”

“No; it's only 9 a.m., but we're transferring to a hotel. The meet-up is at two.”

“Make sure you wake me up by one, then.”

“Breakfast in bed, sleeping beauty,” John announced precisely at one.

“I don't think I've ever been this tired in my whole life,” Cyr yawned as he was helped to a sitting position against the pillows, an elaborate meal in front of him on a tray table.

“It's not too late to change your mind, Cyr,” Kevin said with exaggerated brightness, retreating slightly as he was squinted at. “Seriously. Even if you change your mind once you get there.”

“I get it, Kevin . . . thank you,” he said quietly, picking at eggs, bacon, and tea. And another pain pill.

“I'm cold, John,” he complained as they struggled to coordinate some necessary grooming in the bathroom.

“It's really hot outside, Cyr, so I've made the room cooler than necessary, so that you won't overheat as quickly.”

“Will that be a problem?”

“It's quite likely.”

“From trauma and medication,” the patient knew, reaching for his round sunglasses. But then he hesitated, “Should I be hiding my eyes, then?”

“As long as you'll take them off anytime I request; they're fine. Besides, sunlight will aggravate the left one at this point.”

“I was injured in an incident, if anybody's asking.”

“You know they will.”

“That's as much as I can say now, especially since I'm gonna go nuts trying to spot the bastard.”

“If you couldn't see him before, how will you spot him now?” the puzzled EMT inquired.

“That's why I'm gonna go nuts; I didn't say it was logical.”

“I don't want to be carried in public if at all possible,” Cyr instructed as John wheeled him out of the hotel with Drew right behind. The EMT's medical bag was attached to the back of the chair, and the hotel was right on the edges of the property, so they went right into scads of people, and a lot were staring. The young man was already tense, grasping the arms of the wheelchair, dark eyes darting around under the shades. “Is it that it's me, or is it just the fact of someone in a wheelchair?” he wondered shakily, feeling unusually self-conscious.

“You'd have a better clue than I,” John admitted, and his patient frowned.

“It's probably halves,” Drew offered, right before one teenage girl in tight jeans was right in front of Cyr, mouth agape, and the young man immediately waved his hand back so the three would stop. And so, it began:

“Hello there. What's your name?” “I need a hug; would you hug me?” “I'm a bit . . . wounded, but I should be just fine in a couple days.” “Actually, I'm too rich to walk, and this is my entourage.” “These are my minions.” “This isn't a wheelchair! It's a gasless limousine.” “Yeah, I had an accident, but I wear these prescription sunglasses even when I don't have a black eye.” “You want me to sign WHAT?” “Of course, I'll take a picture with you!” “Well, I won't be doing any dancing for a few days.” “No-o-o, don't be gentle! Hug me as tight as you want.” “Mainly, my balance is off.” “My legs are actually fine.” “Yeah, sometimes getting punched in the eye throws off your equilibrium.” “I had scrambled brains for breakfast.” “Oh, hey, hello!” “How the fuck did you get this past security?”

John and Drew had moved as discreetly off to the side in the YouTubers' green tent as possible, watching Cyr with varying levels of amusement for a good hour. Of course, they were also on alert for specific things, most having nothing to do with the scads of adolescents lined up to meet the young celebrities. The mostly-teen crowd was not really the problem, and Drew especially was scanning the other tents and any of the authorized personnel walking nearby that might be focusing a little too closely on Cyr. Kaitlin and Damon were bookending Cyr as much as possible, and were being very protective, to the point where he actually had to tell them to give him some room to breathe, and John had checked then to make sure that he wasn't being literal.

“How does he seem?” the EMT then whispered to the roommate.

“So normal that it almost scares me,” was her timid response, and he patted her shoulder reassuringly. Kate was so gun-shy at meet-ups that she was actually forcing herself to stay longer for Cyr's sake, and it was appreciated, though he kept giving her odd looks.

But now, Cyr was holding a plastic bottle of chocolate milk in his hands, on his lap, and was looking up at a beaming blue-eyed blonde, obviously giddy that she had surprised him, and all the frantic activity of the last hour had come to a dead stop. Drew was even tenser than Cyr, and John was puzzled:

“What's up?”

“That's his favorite drink, and fans always try to smuggle one in, but it never gets past the gates.”

“I know you love it,” she answered.

“How did you get this past security?” Cyr repeated, just a hint of a tremor in his voice.

“I didn't—” 

“You didn't?”

“They sell it here, now,” and just like that, Cyr was taking a sip.

“They do not sell that here, now,” Drew panicked, instantly up, snatching the bottle right from Cyr's lips. “I need to talk to you, _right now_ ,” he ordered the girl, who looked positively stricken.

“H-Here?” she whispered, and Drew softened a bit as he pulled her to one side.

“My name is Drew Quinones, and I'm head of security for the Warped Tour,” he said just to her as John knelt in front of Cyr, handing over the cap to the bottle. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“It's very important that you tell me where you bought this bottle of chocolate milk.”

“Cyr?” the EMT repeated for the third time, and his patient's whole body shuddered.

“John,” he practically gasped.

“He's finished,” John announced to the front of the line, Kate, Damon, the other security detail, and Cyr himself, pulling the wheelchair, by the arms, off to the side. “Everything's fine, but Cyr's not well.” He lasered in on his suddenly lethargic patient. “How much did you drink, Cyr?”

“Just a sip.”

“How did it taste?” He pulled the sunglasses, now, and the young man's eyes were barely open.

“Odd,” he admitted.

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I wanted to believe it could be real.”

“You're a fucking idiot.” 

“I know,” he whispered tonelessly.

“As long as you know it,” he half-snarled, turning to Drew, who was on his walkie-talkie. “It's definitely drugged. Can I get him out of here?”

“At least it isn't caustic.”

“Small favors,” John rolled his eyes. “So, I'm standing down?”

“You'll attract attention. We're trying to catch him off guard, not the other way around.”

“I'm standing down, then,” he sighed in resignation.

“Now, listen closely, Monica: I'm going to walk over there with you, and you're going to tell me exactly who sold you this chocolate milk.” He had a spare walkie-talkie, and he gave it to John: “Stay as out of sight as possible, because this could turn into chaos, depending on the level of desperation.”

“Seems pretty desperate to me, drugging Cyr the day after date-raping him.”

“Well, the windows of opportunity are shrinking fast.” Drew spoke into his walkie-talkie, “We're approaching the food tent from four directions,” and then he and the anxious-looking girl were gone. Cyr was slumping in the wheelchair, and John rolled it to the back of their tent, laying a thin tarp on the ground before easing his patient onto it.

“Hiding me?” Cyr whispered with a slight grin as his pulse was checked for the umpteenth time.

“It's all I'm allowed to do, apparently,” he sighed in annoyance, folding the 'chair and laying it down flat. “Are you nauseous?”

“Nah.” He started to shake his head, but it was whirling. “Just out of it.” They were now actually between their green tent and the one behind it, on the grass in the narrow space separating the two. “My head hurts,” he winced up at John, half-trying to sit up.

“Stay down,” he ordered, even as the young man started slumping back to the tarp, and he found himself pressing hands onto his arms.

“Yessir, sergeant sir,” Cyr half-mumbled, obviously amused.

“That's Captain John to you, boy.”

“'Oh captain, my captain,'” he chuckled back, and John smiled, but then leaned over and grasped his shoulders:

“I need you to stay awake for me, Cyr. Can you do that?”

“B-but, I'm really tired, captain.” He was shivering now, turning his head to the side, trying to turn his body to cuddle up for warmth, but John wasn't letting go of his shoulders.

“Look at me, Cyr, goddammit.” John was so close now that he could feel his breath on his face. A hand grasped his chin and forced his head back straight.

“But the sun's hurting my eyes,” he complained, squinting, trying to turn back.

“The sun's gone behind the clouds for now,” he was informed

“The glare's terrible,” he persisted, vision starting to white out. “I'm so tired, John.”

“I've got you now, pretty boy.” Cyr's vision was still white, and he was still flat on his back on the tarp, but that voice shook him out of his stupor, and he could feel the man leaning on him and undoing his belt.

“No,” he insisted, trying to sit up. “You're not real. I'm hallucinating. John and Drew would never let you get this close to me again.” His head spun wildly, and he laid back down as he lost all sense of direction. “John told me to stay awake, you fucktard.” He closed his eyes as hard as he could, daggers of pain shooting through the damaged left one. “I need to wake up.”

“Temp's 102,” Cyr heard John say through ringing ears as he was laid on a stretcher, and he felt soaked through, even as he shivered and shook. “Hey!” the EMT managed a surprised smile, noticing the slightly open eyes. “Look who's back!”

“I keep hallucinating,” Cyr whispered unsteadily, already on an oxygen tube and IVs.

“Drugs'll do that,” John said gently as he walked with the gurney. “Back to the ER with you.”

“Just make it stop, please.”

“Security got him,” he was informed. “Does that help?”

“As long as he stays out of my head.” A long pause, “And my chocolate milk.”

John laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> I was a big fan of Cyr's for a few years, but I'm 22 years older than he is, so when the Vans' Warped Tour 2014 came to a city near me, I didn't dare go, because I was old enough to be the mother of most of the people in the target audience. As much as I liked Cyr, I also found him to be a reckless adrenaline junkie, and I've had enough horrible shit happen in my life that I ended up writing an absolute worst case scenario of what can happen when you're not careful.
> 
> All the Best.


End file.
